Ethan's POV

The question hung in the air like poison gas. Aren't you supposed to be working?

My mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. No sound came out at first, just a strange choking noise that didn't sound human.

"I took the night off." The words scraped out of my throat, raw and broken. "For you. I took the whole night off for you."

Lena's hand dropped. She stood there in her half-buttoned shirt, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes, looking at me like I was the one who'd done something wrong.

"You should have called first," she said. Her voice had that edge to it, the one she used with annoying customers at her retail job. "You can't just show up unannounced, Ethan. That's not okay."

"I have a key." I held it up, my hand shaking so badly the metal jingled. "You gave me a key. You said mi casa es su casa."

Michael laughed. Actually laughed. He stood up from the couch, stretching like he'd just woken from a pleasant nap, not like he'd been caught destroying my entire world. He grabbed his shirt from the floor, a designer thing with a label I couldn't pronounce, probably worth more than my monthly salary.

"Oh man," he said, buttoning it slowly. "This is awkward."

"Awkward?" The word exploded out of me. "That's what you're going with? Awkward?"

"What else would you call it?" He shrugged, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. The same one he'd worn when he got accepted to Yale while I'd scraped into community college. When he bought his first BMW while I rode the bus. When Mom and Dad, our parents, had always, always chosen him.

I looked at Lena. Really looked at her. Searching for something. Guilt. Shame. Regret. Anything that said the woman I loved was still in there somewhere.

"I've been working double shifts for three months." My voice cracked but I pushed through it. "Every day. Sometimes sixteen hours. My hands." I held them up, palms out, showing the blisters, the split skin, the calluses that had formed and torn and formed again. "Look at them."

She glanced away.

"I skipped meals, Lena. Breakfast, lunch, sometimes both. I lost fifteen pounds. Fifteen. My jeans don't fit anymore. I've been washing the same three shirts in your sink because I couldn't afford the laundromat." The words kept coming, faster now, a dam breaking. "I paid your rent. Twice. November and January. Eight hundred dollars total. Money I didn't have. Money I needed."

"I said I'd pay you back," she muttered.

"When?" I stepped forward. The purse lay between us on the floor, a beautiful, expensive reminder of my stupidity. "When, Lena? Because you never mentioned it again. Not once."

"Jesus, Ethan." She crossed her arms. "Is that what this is about? Money? You're keeping score?"

"No." My chest hurts. Everything hurts. "It's not about the money. It's about what I gave up for you. What I sacrificed."

"Nobody asked you to do any of that." Her voice turned sharp, cold. "I never asked you to starve yourself or work yourself to death. You chose that. That's on you."

Michael laughed again, softer this time, like he was watching a comedy show. "She's right, bro. Nobody forced you."

"Shut up." I turned on him. "You don't get to talk. You're my brother."

"Adoptive brother," he corrected, examining his fingernails. "Let's be accurate here."

The word hit like a slap. Adoptive. Like it mattered. Like the fifteen years we'd spent under the same roof, sharing the same parents, the same last name, the same life, meant nothing because we didn't share blood.

"That's your defense?" My hands curled into fists at my sides. "We're not really brothers, so it's okay that you're sleeping with my girlfriend?"

"Ex-girlfriend, technically." Michael pulled his phone from his pocket, checking the screen casually. "I mean, after tonight, that's pretty much a given, right?"

Lena flinched but didn't correct him.

"How long?" I asked her. "How long has this been going on?"

She bit her lip. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. It matters. It matters to me."

"Two months," Michael answered when she didn't. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth that had cost our parents five grand in orthodontia. My teeth were crooked. We couldn't afford braces for both of us. "Started right after New Year's. I came into her store looking for a gift. We got talking. One thing led to another."

Two months. January. Right when I'd given her money for rent because she was "short." Right when she'd started working late more often. Right when she'd stopped texting me back as quickly.

"I helped you move your couch that month," I said to Michael. "Remember? You asked me to help move furniture into your new place. I took a day off work. No pay."

"And I bought you lunch," he said. "Buffalo Wild Wings. Expensive place."

"Twenty dollars." My voice shook. "You bought me twenty dollars worth of wings while you were sleeping with my girlfriend."

"She's not your property, Ethan." Lena's tone shifted to something uglier now. Defensive. Attacking. "Love doesn't mean you own someone. You can't just barge in here with your spare key and act like you have some right to control my life."

"Control?" The word came out as a shout. I couldn't help it. "I'm not trying to control you. I loved you. I love you. I gave you everything I had."

"That's the problem." She stepped over the purse, moving closer. "You gave me everything. I never asked for it. You just kept doing it, kept sacrificing, kept making yourself into this tragic martyr. It was suffocating."

"Suffocating." I repeated the word, testing it. "Taking care of you was suffocating?"

"Yes." Her eyes flashed. "You made me feel guilty all the time. Every time you showed up tired, every time you wore those same ratty clothes, every time you mentioned how hard you were working. It was like you wanted me to feel bad."

"I wanted you to know I loved you."

"Well, congratulations." She gestured at the purse. "You proved it. You bought me something expensive I mentioned once as a joke. Good job, Ethan. You win the boyfriend prize."

Michael wandered over to the purse, picking it up. He turned it over in his hands, examining it like a curious artifact.

"Dior," he said. "Nice taste. Two grand, right? Maybe twenty-five hundred with tax?" He looked at me. "That's what, three months salary for you?"

"Put it down."

"Hey, she doesn't want it." He held it up. "Seems like a waste. Maybe I'll give it to someone who appreciates quality."

"Put. It. Down."

"Make me, little bro." The smirk widened. "Oh wait, you can't. Because you've always been weak. The stray the family picked up out of pity. Mom felt sorry for you, sitting in that group home, looking pathetic. But you never fit in, did you? Never quite measured up."

"Stop it, Michael," Lena said, but there was no force behind it.

"He needs to hear this." Michael stepped closer, the purse dangling from his fingers. "You were never meant to compete with me, Ethan. Not in school, not in life, and definitely not with women. I drive a BMW. You ride the bus. I wear Tom Ford. You wear Walmart clearance. I'm drinking thirty-year scotch while you're counting quarters for ramen."

"I'm a better man than you'll ever be."

He laughed, loud and sharp. "With what? Your integrity? Your work ethic? Nobody cares about that, man. Women don't care about that. They care about results. Success. Money. Things I have and you don't."

I looked at Lena. "Is that true? Is that all you care about?"

She hesitated. For a moment, just one moment, I thought she might say no. Might remember the nights we'd stayed up talking until dawn. The walks in the park. The way she'd held my hand during her grandmother's funeral.

"You're from the same family anyway," she said finally. "Rich or poor, what's the difference? At least Michael can actually take me places without checking his bank account first."

The words hit harder than Michael's fists ever could. Same family. Like our bond, my love, my sacrifice, meant nothing compared to the size of his wallet.

"Give me the purse," I said quietly.

"Oh, now you want it back?" Michael held it away. "Too late. It's been opened. No returns."

"It's mine. I paid for it."

"Consider it payment for all those free lunches I bought you over the years."

Something inside me snapped. Not broke. Snapped. Like a cable pulled too tight, finally giving way.

I moved toward him. "Give it to me."

"Or what?"

My hand reached for the purse. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. We stood there, frozen, his fingers digging into my skin where the blisters were worst.

Then Lena reached for it too. "Just let him have it, Michael. It's not worth the fight."

"Everything I do is worth fighting for," Michael said.

His other hand came up fast, closing into a fist. I saw it coming but couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but watch as his fist flew toward my face.

Ethan's POV

His fist never connected.

My body moved on instinct, jerking sideways just enough that his knuckles grazed my ear instead of my jaw. The momentum carried him forward, off balance, and I shoved him. Hard.

Michael stumbled backward, his expensive shoes sliding on the hardwood floor. His arms pinwheeled, grabbing at air, at nothing. The purse flew from his hand, hitting the wall with a dull thud. Then he went down, landing on his back with a grunt that knocked the wind from his lungs.

For a second, nobody moved.

I stood there, breathing hard, staring at my hands like they belonged to someone else. My brother, adoptive or not, lay on the floor. I'd put him there.

"You piece of shit." Michael's voice came out wheezy. He rolled onto his side, coughing. "You actually hit me."

"You swung first."

"I barely touched you."

"You tried." My hands were shaking again, but different this time. Not from fear or heartbreak. From something darker. Something that felt almost good. "You tried and you missed."

He pushed himself up on one elbow, touching his lip where it had split against his teeth. Blood, bright red, stained his fingers. He looked at it like he'd never seen his own blood before. Maybe he hadn't. Golden boy Michael, who'd never been in a real fight, who'd paid other kids to take his punches in middle school.

"Look what you did." He held up his hand, showing Lena. "Look at this."

"Oh my god." Lena rushed to him, dropping to her knees beside him. Her hands fluttered over his face, his shoulders, checking for damage like he'd been hit by a car instead of pushed by someone twenty pounds lighter. "Michael, are you okay? Can you breathe?"

"I'm fine." He batted her hands away, but gently. Always gentle with her. "But your psycho ex just assaulted me."

"I'm not a psycho."

"You attacked me in my girlfriend's apartment."

"Your girlfriend?" The words tasted like acid. "She was mine first."

"Was." Michael got to his feet, Lena supporting him even though he didn't need it. "Past tense. Get it through your thick skull, Ethan. She doesn't want you. She never really did."

I looked at Lena. She wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Tell me he's lying." My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Tell me you loved me. Even if it's over, tell me it was real once."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I cared about you," she said finally. "I did. But Ethan, you have to understand. I'm twenty-six years old. I can't keep living like we're broke college students forever. I need stability. Security. A future."

"I was building that. For us."

"On what? Walmart paychecks and tutoring gigs?" She shook her head. "That's not a future. That's barely surviving."

"So you picked him because he has money." The words felt heavy, final. "That's what this comes down to."

"It's not just the money." But her voice wavered. "Michael can give me things you can't. Nice dinners. Vacations. A life where I'm not worried about making rent every month."

"I helped you with rent."

"And I felt terrible about it every time." She finally looked at me, and her eyes were hard. "Don't you get it? I don't want to be someone's charity case. I don't want to date someone who makes me feel guilty for wanting nice things."

"I bought you a two-thousand-dollar purse."

"With money you couldn't afford to spend." She gestured at me, at my worn jeans and faded shirt. "Look at yourself, Ethan. You're falling apart trying to impress someone who never asked you to. That's not love. That's a form of obsession."

The room tilted. Or maybe I did. Everything felt wrong, like I'd woken up in someone else's nightmare.

"You're right," I said quietly. "I was obsessed. With someone who doesn't exist."

"Finally, he gets it." Michael draped his arm over Lena's shoulders, pulling her close. The gesture was possessive, deliberate. "You know what your problem is, little bro? You think being poor makes you noble. Like suffering somehow makes you better than everyone else. But it doesn't. It just makes you poor."

"And you think being rich makes you a man." I bent down, picking up the purse from where it had fallen. The leather was soft against my raw palms. "But it doesn't. It just makes you rich."

"Rich is better." He smiled, blood still on his teeth. "Ask anyone. Ask Lena."

I did. I looked at her, really looked, giving her one last chance to prove me wrong.

"I choose Michael," she said. Simple. Clean. Final.

"Then I hope you're happy together." I tucked the purse under my arm. "I hope his money keeps you warm at night. I hope it fills whatever hole you have inside that my love wasn't enough to fill."

"Don't be dramatic," she said. "This is exactly why we didn't work. You're always so intense about everything."

"Get out." Michael pointed at the door. "You're not welcome here anymore."

"It's her apartment."

"And she wants you gone." He looked at Lena. "Right, babe?"

She hesitated. For half a second, she hesitated.

"Leave, Ethan." Her voice was tired. "Please just leave. You're embarrassing yourself."

"Embarrassing?" The word hit like a punch. "I'm embarrassing?"

"Yes." She wrapped both arms around Michael's waist. "This whole thing. Showing up unannounced. Fighting. Making a scene. It's childish."

"I caught you cheating on me."

"We were taking a break."

"Since when? Since when were we on a break, Lena?"

She didn't answer.

"That's what I thought." I headed for the door, each step feeling like walking through concrete. "You know what's really embarrassing? I actually thought you were different. I thought you saw past the money, the clothes, the car. I thought you saw me."

"I did see you," she said. "That's the problem."

The words followed me into the hallway. I didn't look back. Couldn't. If I looked back, I might do something stupid. Cry. Beg. Break.

The door slammed behind me. I heard the deadbolt click. Then voices, muffled. Then laughter.

They were laughing.

The elevator took forever. I stood there, staring at my reflection in the polished doors. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheeks. When had I become this person? This ghost wearing Ethan's face?

The purse felt heavier with each floor. By the time I reached the lobby, it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Have a good night, Ethan," Leonard called.

I didn't respond. Couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I'd scream.

Outside, the February air hit like a wall. Freezing. Biting. The kind of cold that found every gap in your clothes and crawled inside. I had no coat. I'd forgotten it in my rush to get here, to surprise the woman I loved.

Loved. Past tense.

For the first time in my life, love turned into something else. Something darker. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

Hatred.

Pure, clean, burning hatred.

I hated Michael for being born into wealth. I hated Lena for choosing it. I hated myself for being stupid enough to believe I could compete.

My phone rang.

I almost didn't answer. Almost threw it in the gutter and kept walking into the night until I disappeared. But habit made me pull it from my pocket, check the screen.

Unknown number.

Scam, probably. Some robot trying to sell me car insurance or tell me my social security number had been compromised. I answered anyway. Why not? The night couldn't get worse.

"Hello?"

"Is this Ethan?" The voice was elderly, male, cultured. Like someone from an old movie. "Ethan Cross?"

"Who's asking?"

"My name is Winston, young master. I've been searching for you for quite some time."

Young master. Right. Definitely a scam.

"Look, I'm not interested in whatever you're selling. And I don't have any money, so if this is about a debt, you're wasting your time."

"On the contrary." Papers rustled on his end. "You have quite a lot of money. You simply don't know it yet."

I laughed. Actually laughed. It came out bitter, broken. "Sure. I'm secretly rich. And I'm also the king of England. Listen, old man, I've had the worst night of my life. I'm not in the mood for games."

"This is no game, young master. Your grandfather has been looking for you since you were five years old. We've finally found you."

"My grandfather is dead." I started walking, no destination in mind. Just away. Away from that building. Away from her. "Both of them. Nice try."

"Your adoptive grandparents, yes. I'm speaking of your biological grandfather. Mr. Sterling Cross. He's quite eager to meet you."

Sterling Cross. The name meant nothing. Some made-up rich person's name. These scammers were getting creative.

"I'm hanging up now."

"Please, just check your bank account. You'll see I'm quite serious."

"Yeah, okay." I pulled the phone from my ear. "Have a nice life, Winston."

I hung up.

Stood there on the freezing sidewalk, breath making clouds in the air.

Checked my bank account because why not? Might as well see how broke I really was after buying that stupid purse.

The app loaded slowly. My phone was old, the screen cracked, the processor struggling.

Then the numbers appeared.

I blinked.

Blinked again.

The numbers didn't change.

My bank account, which had contained exactly two hundred and thirty-seven dollars this morning, now showed a balance of one hundred million dollars.

And four cents.

Ethan's POV

The phone rang again before I could process what I was seeing.

My thumb hovered over the decline button. Every instinct screamed scam. Fraudsters were getting sophisticated. They could fake bank balances, create convincing apps, steal your information while you stared at numbers that couldn't possibly be real.

One hundred million dollars.

My hand shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I answered.

"Before you hang up again, young master, please listen carefully." Winston's voice carried the patience of someone who'd delivered shocking news many times before. "I understand this is overwhelming. I understand you don't believe me. But I need five minutes of your time. Just five."

"How did you do that?" My voice came out hoarse. "The bank account. How did you fake it?"

"I didn't fake anything. The transfer is genuine. If you'd like, call your bank directly. Use the number on the back of your card, not one I provide. They'll confirm the deposit."

I pulled the phone away, staring at the screen. The balance still showed those impossible numbers. Blinking. Real. Waiting.

"This is identity theft," I said. "You hacked my account. You're going to drain it and disappear."

"Drain an account I just filled?" Winston chuckled softly. "That would be rather counterproductive, don't you think?"

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to bring you home, young master. To the family you were taken from twenty-three years ago."

The sidewalk felt unsteady beneath my feet. I leaned against a lamppost, the metal cold through my thin shirt. Around me, the city moved like normal. Cars passing. People walking. The world continuing like mine hadn't just tilted sideways.

"I'm not from any rich family," I said. "I grew up in a group home until I was eight. The Crosses adopted me. That's my story. That's all there is."

"That's the story you were told." Papers rustled again. "But it's not the truth. Your name isn't Ethan Cross. It's Ethan Sterling. You were born to Richard and Catherine Sterling on March 15th, twenty-three years ago. You were taken from your family when you were only six months old."

"Taken? Like kidnapped?"

"Yes."

The word hung in the freezing air. Kidnapped. Me. A baby stolen from some wealthy family, raised in poverty, adopted by people who treated me like a charity case.

"That's insane," I said. "If I was kidnapped, there would have been news coverage. Police investigations. Amber alerts. You can't just steal a rich person's baby and get away with it."

"You can if you're thorough enough." Winston's voice turned grave. "Your kidnapper was never caught. The case went cold after two years. Your parents searched for you until the day they died. Your grandfather, Sterling Cross, never stopped looking. He hired investigators, spent millions, followed every lead for over two decades."

Sterling Cross. That name again. I tried to remember if I'd heard it before. In the news maybe. On some billboard or magazine cover.

Nothing.

"Why should I believe any of this?"

"Because of your birthmark, young master. You have one on your left shoulder blade. Roughly the size of a quarter. Shaped like a crescent moon."

My free hand went to my shoulder automatically. I couldn't see it, couldn't touch it through my shirt, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. I'd had it my whole life. The kids at the group home used to tease me about it. Said it looked like someone had burned me with a cigarette.

"Lots of people have birthmarks," I said weakly.

"Not that exact shape in that exact location. We have your medical records from when you were an infant. Before you disappeared. The birthmark is documented. Along with your blood type, AB negative. Quite rare. Only one percent of the population."

AB negative. I'd donated blood once in college. They'd told me I had a rare type, asked me to come back regularly. I never did. Too busy working.

"This is crazy." I started walking again, needing to move, to do something other than stand still while my world rewrote itself. "Even if what you're saying is true, why now? Why after twenty-three years?"

"We found new evidence six months ago. A photograph from the group home where you lived. One of the workers kept personal albums. She passed away last year. Her daughter was sorting through her belongings and posted some photos online, reminiscing about her mother's work. One photo showed a group of children. You were among them. Eight years old."

"So?"

"So your grandfather has been using facial recognition software for years. Scanning every database, every photo, every image he could access. The software flagged your face. A ninety-eight percent match to computer-aged projections of what you should look like. We investigated further. Found your adoption records, sealed though they were. Confirmed your birthmark through a source at your last medical checkup. Verified your blood type. Everything matched."

I stopped walking. A couple passed me, giving me strange looks. I probably looked insane. Standing in the freezing cold without a coat, staring at my phone like it held the secrets of the universe.

Maybe it did.

"The Cross family," I said slowly. "My adoptive family. Did they know? Did they know who I was?"

Silence stretched for three heartbeats.

"Yes," Winston said finally. "They knew."

The pavement tilted again. I pressed my palm against the brick wall of the nearest building, steadying myself.

"How long?"

"From the beginning. They were paid to adopt you. To keep you hidden. To raise you as their own and never speak of your true origins."

Paid. They were paid to take me in. To pretend to love me. To treat Michael like gold while I wore hand-me-downs and worked myself to exhaustion.

"How much?" The question came out as a whisper.

"Two million dollars. Deposited in installments over eight years."

Two million dollars for my childhood. For my identity. For twenty-three years of lies.

"Why would they do that? Why would someone pay them to hide me?"

"That's still under investigation, young master. Your grandfather believes it was someone who stood to inherit if you disappeared. The Sterling fortune is considerable. With you gone, other relatives gained access to portions of it."

"So someone kidnapped me for money."

"Yes. And the Cross family helped them finish the job."

My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, landing hard on the cold concrete. The purse, still clutched under my arm, pressed against my ribs.

Two thousand dollars. I'd spent two thousand dollars trying to prove my love to a woman who chose my fake brother. My fake brother who'd grown up with money that should have been mine. Who'd driven cars and worn clothes and lived a life built on my stolen inheritance.

"The one hundred million," I managed. "Is that real?"

"Completely real. It's a small portion of your trust fund. You have considerably more, but it's tied up in stocks, properties, and business holdings. Your grandfather wanted you to have immediate access to liquid capital. For security. For comfort."

"For revenge," I said quietly.

Winston paused. "That's entirely up to you, young master. But yes. The resources are there should you choose to use them."

"What else do I have? You said business holdings."

"Several. The largest is Zenith Corporation. The premier financial enterprise in the city. Assets valued at over fifty billion dollars. Your grandfather has been running it as trustee. Upon your return, controlling interest transfers to you."

Zenith Corporation. I'd heard of them. Everyone had. They owned half the commercial real estate downtown. Financed major developments. Their logo was on buildings, billboards, investment firms.

"I'd own that?"

"You'd be the majority shareholder, yes. Fifty-one percent. Your grandfather retains thirty percent. The remaining nineteen percent is distributed among board members and investors."

"I don't know anything about running a corporation."

"You'll have advisors. Experts. Your grandfather himself. And you're quite intelligent, young master. Your tutoring records show a remarkable aptitude for mathematics and business theory. You simply lacked opportunity."

Opportunity. The word felt bitter. I'd lacked opportunity because someone had stolen it. Had buried me in poverty while they lived off wealth that belonged to me.

"The CEO will contact you soon," Winston continued. "Her name is Margaret Chen. She's been with the company for fifteen years. Loyal to your grandfather. She'll help facilitate your transition."

"When?" My brain struggled to keep up. "When does all this happen?"

"It already has, young master. The moment the money transferred, certain legal mechanisms activated. You're listed now as the beneficial owner of Zenith Corporation. The paperwork is being filed as we speak. By tomorrow morning, it will be public record."

Tomorrow. In twelve hours, my life would be completely different.

"I need to meet him," I said. "My grandfather. I need to see proof. Real proof. Not just money in an account and stories on the phone."

"Of course. He's eager to meet you as well. But we must be cautious. The people who took you are still out there. They may react badly to your return. We need to ensure your safety first."

"So what do I do? Just wait?"

"For tonight, yes. Stay somewhere public. Somewhere safe. Don't go home. Don't contact the Cross family. We'll arrange a secure meeting location for tomorrow. I'll call you in the morning with details."

The phone felt hot against my ear. My mind raced through implications, possibilities, questions that had no answers yet.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why do you care about finding me?"

"Because your grandfather is a good man who lost his only son and daughter-in-law in the same accident that led to your kidnapping. Because you're the last of his bloodline. Because he's eighty-seven years old and won't rest until he sees you home."

Eighty-seven. Old. Running out of time.

"Winston?"

"Yes, young master?"

"Thank you. For finding me."

"It's my honor, sir. Now please, get somewhere warm. You'll catch your death in this weather."

He hung up before I could respond.

I sat there on the freezing sidewalk, phone in one hand, designer purse in the other, trying to understand what had just happened.

Kidnapped. Heir. One hundred million dollars. Zenith Corporation.

The words didn't connect. Didn't form a coherent picture.

My phone rang again.

Mom. My adoptive mother. The woman who'd raised me on stolen money. Who'd watched me work myself to exhaustion while Michael lived in luxury. Who'd known, the entire time, exactly what she'd done.

I almost didn't answer.

But I did.

"Ethan Cross." Her voice came through sharp and furious. "Where the hell are you?"

"Out."

"Michael just called me. He said you broke into Lena's apartment and attacked him. He said you assaulted him over some girl."

"That's not what happened."

"I don't care what happened." She was screaming now. Full volume. I pulled the phone away from my ear. "You stole your brother's girlfriend. You put your hands on him. You're a disgrace."

"He's not my brother."

"What?"

"I said he's not my brother. And you're not my mother."

Silence. Long and cold.

"Come home," she said finally. Her voice had changed. Lower. Dangerous. "Come home right now, Ethan. We need to talk."

"I don't think so."

"That wasn't a request. You live under my roof. You follow my rules. Get home. Now."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, at the missed call notification, at the bank balance still showing numbers that couldn't be real but were.

Then I stood up, brushed the dirt off my jeans, and started walking.

Not home.

Somewhere else.

Anywhere else.